


holding patterns that hold you back

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Ulf realizes how much he's looking, it's become a problem, and he knows it. Just not one he particularly wants to solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holding patterns that hold you back

Things settle into a holding pattern, and it isn't the one Ulf would have expected.

The Rangers have never kicked up much fuss about his orientation, or _sluttiness_ , said with enough humor that he doesn't take it personally—it isn't a _bad_ thing. Nothing's really been kicked up in a locker room since the Leafs-- that was Marc and Dan more than anything, and Ulf suspects if Marc had been a little more well-liked, nothing would have been said. Not to blame him—Marc's an annoying shit sometimes but no one's ever _asking_ for it—but if it had been two guys as easygoing as Dan in the equation, whoever spoke out would have been subject to the regulatory shaming of the majority, quick enough.

Ulf hit the Panthers right when little Jake Lourdes was spreading his wings as captain, and there was a zero-tolerance policy on homophobia that was pretty much obeyed when Lourdes was in the room, which was most of the time. The Rangers didn't have the same policy, not even close, and Ulf's heard the comments before they're going to play the Habs, the Sens, but his tendency to go off with guys as often as women is met with a shrug because he's one of them. Sometimes a bitter remark that he has better luck with beautiful women than anyone and he's only fucking them half the time, sometimes a disbelieving question as to why he wastes his time with men when he could fuck a woman _whenever he wants_ , as far as they can tell, but shrugs more often than not.

So it's only Rousseau paying attention, really; a close to obligatory late dinner in Oakland after a decisive win against the Golden Seals, a waiter who lingers and is good-looking enough that Ulf considers lingering himself, have a drink after dinner, find out when he's off. After the waiter comes by to attentively top off his water for the second time, and Ulf thanks him silently with a brush of his fingers to the starch white of his shirt cuff, he looks up to find Rousseau watching him, an inscrutable look on his face. When everyone's drifting out, either to the hotel a block away or to find some other entertainment, Ulf takes his time finishing up.

“A tactic?” Rousseau asks flatly from across the table as he's shrugging his suit jacket on.

“Trying to get laid actually,” Ulf counters. “Chances look good.”

Rousseau's mouth flattens. “Bus leaves at nine a.m.,” he says, and he's out the door before Ulf can respond that he knows that, it's not like he was going to stay the _night_.

The waiter's name is Diego, he gets off at eleven, and he gives _fantastic_ head. Ulf's back to his room by two, and one of the first on the bus to the airport. When Rousseau gets on, his gaze rests on Ulf for a minute, and Ulf grins at him. Let him think whatever he wants about it. 

*

Rousseau may be the only one who gives a shit about Ulf picking up guys, but ironically, whenever he picks up women in the general vicinity of the Rangers, he has a bunch of wide-eyed spectators, asking how the hell it's so _easy_ for him. Ulf's suggestion that they actually treat them like people has been dismissed, and consensus is that it's a mysterious Swedish superpower, one that apparently passed Ericsson over, to his vocal dismay.

Rookies like ducklings following him to somehow soak up _something_ (an uncomfortable reminder of Filip and his tendency to practically trip over Ulf’s heels, but this incidence is decidedly more heterosexual and presumably less likely to end in hurt feelings, at least ones Ulf’s responsible for), which makes him feel old, like he’s chaperoning a bunch of eighteen year olds on their disastrous adventures in flirting. Which he pretty much is. Lord knows they need the help, though. The addition of legal unfettered alcohol use in Alberta has Ulf wincing in second-hand embarrassment throughout the night. 

It’s a holding pattern, as Ulf said. The rookies will always be too wide-eyed and too brash for their own good, the way he was, the way they’ll be pretty much eternally, a bunch of small-town boys thrown into both responsibility and luxury in a way that overwhelms. The Rangers will always be at least mediocre, have held steady in that regard as long as Ulf’s been playing in the league, and Travis’s strategies are working for them, they’re holding strong for another consecutive playoff spot, which is premature but probably accurate. Ulf’s sticking to his playing style and getting his usual minutes, which aren’t as good as they used to be but don’t trend on the verge of getting sent down, the weather gets colder. All typical starts to a season, things Ulf is starting to look at with a premature nostalgia, because he knows they’re going to slip through his fingers sooner rather than later, body holding out for now, not that it’s any guarantee. 

Rousseau keeps looking at him. That’s what’s different. Rousseau keeps looking at him, and Ulf can’t help but look back. 

*

At first it's a matter of watching Rousseau watch him, a slightly narcissistic amusement to it, because Rousseau doesn't say much to him, in the room or out of it, but he _looks_. He does it all the time. He did it when Ulf picked up in front of him on a bar night in which the coaches stopped in for a drink; a women this time, Beth, with curly blonde hair and legs a mile long—strong too, thighs flexing when she rode him later—untouched drink beside him and his eyes on Ulf even as Travis leaned into say something to him. He does it in the room, and out of it—not on the ice, because he's rigidly professional there, and watches the game with a strategic eye with almost uncanny perception. Not on the ice, where Ulf has eyes for nothing else either.

It isn't hard, catching Rousseau watching him, mouth a flat line, and Ulf does it a lot, catches his eye, which never fails to bring color to Rousseau's cheeks, but doesn't seem to stop him from looking. Ulf catches himself watching Rousseau too, whether he's paying attention or not, soon less to catch him and more just to _look_. The stiff collars of his dress shirts, always white, plain, and the column of his throat above them. His hands, long-fingered, elegant, the left stiff enough sometimes he'll massage it with the right when they’re in the cool air of the arena. Ulf finds out it’s the product of old injury, always a slave to his own curiosity: broken hand, a fact that’s tersely spooled out of Rousseau when Ulf asks.

Ulf catches himself looking, and _keeps_ looking—the straight line of his back, posture rigidly perfect; the occasional glint of silver or platinum at the nape of his neck from a necklace that must sit below the collar; carefully groomed black hair and brown eyes dark enough to appear black themselves, framed by almost femininely long lashes, a slightly crooked nose Ulf doesn't ask about but would bet money has been broken; a strong jaw line, which had to be, because Rousseau gave the impression of permanently clenching his teeth. A handsome, dour face, humorless. Ulf wonders if he'd loosen up in bed, or stay as serious. Ulf wonders if he'd _bite._

By the time Ulf realizes he's looking just as often as Rousseau is, he's gotten accustomed to it, and he doesn't really want to stop. By the time Ulf realizes how much he's looking, it's become a problem, and he knows it. Just not one he particularly wants to solve. He could probably get it out of his system if he took Rousseau to bed, but right now, he enjoys looking. And he enjoys Rousseau looking back.

*

Rousseau makes for an awkward leader, most of the time, tight-lipped, uses Travis as a mouthpiece for ideas that must be his, sits back like more of a spectator than a coach. The only exception is game tape, where he proves exactly how much he notices, and Ulf’s never been in a better behaved room of players than when he’s breaking down the successes and failures, voice measured, never calling anyone out and relying on public humiliation to coax behavior onto a better path. He states good plays and bad plays in the same tone, statements of fact, not praise or chastisement. 

Except for a notable exception, a replay that’s focused more on Ulf leaning across to the Islanders bench than the play in front, and Rousseau says, “And Larsson’s flirting once again,” in the same tone as everything else, dry as anything, and the room erupts in laughter, less at the chirp than the fact it’s _Rousseau_ making it. Ulf shrugs unrepentantly, meeting Rousseau’s eye, and he thinks he sees a twitch of Rousseau’s mouth, a smile or grimace, who knows with him, before Rousseau looks away.

Ulf bites back a smile of his own. 

*

Ulf mentions Rousseau the next time him and Marc skype, idle. He'd previously mentioned the lecture he'd received on flirting, and Marc had been as amused as expected, witness to its fairly consistent results, albeit not personally; mentioned Rousseau's attention, which Marc hadn't really remarked upon at all. He'd think that this current update would have sprung naturally enough from the preceding events, did when he thought about it in hindsight, but Marc's reaction makes it clear that isn't the case, at least for him.

Ulf expects Marc's further amusement, either at his expense or not, possibly the rueful, slightly chastising expression he'd had when the rookie incident got out of hand. What he doesn't expect is Marc's mouth drawn in a flat, disapproving line, the kind Ulf's seen on Marc's face before, but not turned in his direction.

"He is a good kid," Marc says, slightly sharp.

Ulf had forgotten that Rousseau had just squeaked into the Olympics, years ago, at his height and when Marc was still comfortably the elite, playing on Marc’s opposite wing. Doesn't know how he forgot, because he'd fed Marc the Golden goal, the game-winner in the second that Sweden had never matched, and that Ulf had been so torn by at the time, proud of Marc but unable to be completely happy about watching Sweden handed silver instead. Again. 

"He's your age," Ulf protests. "He's not a kid."

"He is a kid," Marc says, which he hadn't even said about Filip, who practically had been. "He is always a kid. He is an idealist, and you are terrible for idealists."

Ulf snorts, but it's not like it's untrue. "No 'don't be stupid, he's your coach, blah blah power dynamics'?"

“He is _fragile_ ,” Marc says. “If you think he is the one in power in this situation, you are being stupid."

Ulf rolls his eyes at Marc. "You knew him for what, ten minutes ten years ago?"

"I know you," Marc says simply. 

“Give me some credit,” Ulf says, and then at Marc's skeptical look, “Fine, give him some.”

“He flinched every time I mentioned Dan,” Marc says flatly. “Every time. I noticed.”

“You do mention Dan a lot,” Ulf says, but Marc's succeeded in making him feel slightly uneasy. He's not interested in sex without two (or more) enthusiastically consenting individuals, and inwardly directed, self-loathing homophobia doesn't really strike him as falling under that umbrella.

Marc's expression conveys just how impressed he is by Ulf's argument; that is to say, not very. 

“Go tuck your adorable kid in and fuck your adorable husband,” Ulf mutters.

“I will,” Marc says. “Go fuck one of the million New York citizens who would fuck you. And stay away from your _coach_.”

“Oh fuck off,” Ulf says, moving to turn the video feed off, and Marc says farewell with a one-fingered salute.

“It's not like I was planning on fucking him anyway,” Ulf belatedly says to the black screen. Which is for the best, because he doesn't really want to face Marc's disbelief, thinks it would directly mirror his own.


End file.
